Blue, and Everything You Mean to Me
by yayfornonsense
Summary: It felt very much like falling, being with Gregory House.


**A/N: A very long, very introspective piece focusing on the evolution of House and Cuddy's relationship. I felt this was an appropriate time to post this piece, given the finale and Lisa Edelstein's pending departure. I'd like to think of this as my sort of fare-thee-well to House, as I won't be back next season. Personally, I feel like the writers are just spinning their wheels now. Whatever magic House had at the beginning of the season (and there wasn't much) was lost in that horrific finale. I simply don't even care about these characters anymore. Nonetheless, while it lasted, House and Cuddy's dog-eat-dog relationship has always been one of my favorites. I wish Shore and company could have sent them out with a bang, but I guess I'll just have to do it myself.**

**My first time writing for House, so reviews are really appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: don't own it.**

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><p>It all started with a snide remark.<p>

Really, could have started any other way? Anything else would have been too… _not House_ and he was nothing if not original. It was actually one of the first things she noticed about him. His originality.

Not the little things, things anyone would pick up on. His constant misanthropic attitude, his need to be _absolutely_ right _all _the time, his charismatic persona that lit up a room like fireworks on the fourth of July: these were all things that belonged to him. They were the things she brushed aside as unimportant. She always believed in getting to the root; definitions were meaningless unless you knew where they came from.

So she saw the world in its barest form, learning all of its secrets and believing that, in essence, everything truly was black and white. The grey was simply a cover for stark reality. She stripped him naked (in a metaphorical, very _non-sexual_ way) just like she did everything else, trying to get to his core, to find out if he was black or white. This was necessary; everything had to be categorized, compartmentalized and discarded. It was the only way she knew how to _survive_.

It felt very much like falling, being with Gregory House. Euphoria and blinding fear and absolutely _no way _to go back. Heart pounding, palms sweating and the strangest, strongest urge to scream, though for joy or terror she never knew.

It all started with a snide remark and the first time she ever saw anything in color.

"Have you sued the surgeon who did that ass yet?"

She takes two seconds to organize. This is what she expects every day for the rest of her life; it came along with words like _medical school _and _female _and _chauvinist pig_.

"If you're offering, thanks, but I don't use law students for my really important court cases." Satisfied that she will never have to see his face again, she turns and exits the café at a smart trot, books tucked firmly under one arm. He sees what she can't: that her entire demeanor, right down to her sensible, classy pumps, screams _overachiever_. Or, as he so eloquently likes to put it, _ass kisser_.

Why he follows her, then, he has absolutely no idea.

That in itself irks him. He _always _has an idea. He does not follow random girls, trailing them on their way to the library like some creepy, middle-aged dropout. He knows what is important and what isn't.

This _clearly_ isn't.

But his legs seem to be moving of their own accord, taking long, purposeful strides across the huge lawn, which is dry and brown after a summer with no rain. Her form, barely visible and glimmering like a mirage in the sunlight, does not change, does not turn around, simply keeps moving forward in that confident trot. He wills himself to stop before she notices; it's too fucking hot to be outside, following some random girl to the library. But his damn legs keep propelling him forward, all the way to the cool, shadowed interior of the library.

She has disappeared, which annoys him. Then he quickly elevates to being annoyed that he is annoyed.

This is all so fucking stupid.

"Are you following me?"

She sounds incredulous and absolutely horrified. Funny though: when he turns to face her, her expression doesn't match. It's a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He wonders if she's doing it on purpose, or if she simply hasn't learned the art of a good poker face yet.

"It's a free country. Not like I can't go to the library if I want to."

His voice is full of scathing sarcasm, but he doesn't fool her for a second. _This _is her specialty, after all. She, unlike others, notices the playful mischief in his eyes, the wrinkled shirt that suggests several days wear, the alcohol on his breath. Proud of her own quick assessment, she's ready to tell him off. She doesn't have time for this. On her list of things that are mildly important (and she _does _have a list, right next to the one she keeps of all her accomplishments) _slackers _certainly don't make the cut.

He interrupts, bringing her train of self-important thought to a screeching halt. "Greg House."

He shoves his hand in her face, but she barely notices. Her mind is still stuck somewhere back in the ravine of _Greg House_. Because… _Greg House_? _The_ Greg House? The legend that she's dreamed of meeting ever since freshman year? (Though certainly under _very _different circumstances)

It had been a secret, actually. All the girls wanted to meet Greg House. He was the god of pre-med students on campus. He was a party boy; there was really no other term for it. His reputation was positively _scandalous_, but he had the nerve to be a straight-A, valedictorian genius on the side. He was exactly the type of person proud, no-nonsense Lisa Cuddy _detested_.

Which, of course, was why she was secretly in love with him.

It was all so pathetic, and Lisa Cuddy did not _do _pathetic. So she kept her thoughts of him firmly tucked away in the back of her occipital cortex and went on being the hard-ass, overachieving bitch everyone (including herself) expected her to be. It was a good, well-organized plan.

It is a good, well-organized plan that shatters into a million pieces as she stands there in the library, Greg House's hand in her face.

She recovers quickly, even though this time there is no back-up plan. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, there should _always_ be a back-up plan_. Nevertheless, the path forward from here is simple. She can get through five minutes feeling blind as a bat, but no more.

"Lisa Cuddy."

The hand goes up to grasp his warmer one, but inside the mind is reeling. _Objective: get out as quickly as possible, form a new plan and try to run into him later to explain._

"Have I seen you before? Are you in my endocrinology class?"

His remarks have smoothed out somewhat, sounding less biting and more playful, and as his expression evens out, she starts to see why he has the reputation he does.

_Focus, Lisa._

"I… yes, I think so."

_Note to self: get into that endocrinology class as soon as possible_.

"I thought so." He smiles, or maybe it's just a quirk, because it's barely there, just a twitch at the side of his face really. But his eyes have gotten bluer. She can feel herself sinking into them.

_You're losing it. New objective: get out as quickly as possible and never run into him again._

She looks constipated, and he finds himself thinking that he really needs to coach her about wearing her emotions so publicly. Then he wonders where in the hell that thought came from; she is no one: barely a blip on the radar. This five-minute half-conversation means nothing. She fidgets with the strap of her purse and glances away and then back, worrying her bottom lip.

"I'm late. I should go."

He has to consciously restrain himself from grabbing her arm to stop her. What the hell is wrong with him?

He suddenly looks angrier than he did before, and she bites her bottom lip in nervous distraction.

_Stop that. You're an adult. Act like one. Just walk away._

"It was nice meeting you." She smiles; a very disinterested, polite-edging-on-haughty smile that she hopes conveys her feelings. Loud and clear.

She doesn't wait for a reply. By the time she is at the door, she doesn't expect one. It doesn't come until she is on the sidewalk, fumbling with the clasp on her purse.

"Nice to meet you too."

She dashes away, praying to all the gods she doesn't believe in that they will never see each other again.

x

They don't actually. Not for six months, which is just enough time for her to build up her defenses again and then double them, just to make absolutely _certain _that she will always, _always_ survive. Survival is key; it's all part of the plan.

Their second meeting comes at a party.

_Party _is technically not the right term. Something more like… _domesticated rebellion against society and the world _would probably be more appropriate. It was a locked-down, cop-hating, every-man-for-himself kind of event: the kind of party Lisa Cuddy absolutely _never _attended.

She had known it was a bad idea to begin with. Exams were coming; she needed to study (she was a whole-hearted believer in the brain-numbing, every-possible-second-cramming kind of studying). Her roommate, however, was from _Wisconsin _and she wanted to have some _fun_. So of course Lisa went along, because the poor girl was so naïve and for Christ's sake all her home state had was _cheese_.

She pretends not to notice him at first.

Of course she does. He is, after all, the only thing she ever sees in color. He's like a blinding light on the peripherals of her vision: always there, but if she ignores him maybe she won't start drowning again.

She has to survive, after all.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem to notice her in the least. _Or maybe he just doesn't remember you_, a voice in her head whispers. She firmly squashes that thought down, though she doesn't know why. Because why should she care if her remembers her or not? They had a five-minute exchange _months _ago. It wouldn't be fair of her to believe she was anything more than just another stranger in a sea of faces. And yet—

And yet it hurts so fucking bad to think that way.

"Well, if it isn't Little Miss Smartass."

She has never tried so hard not to smile. She settles for scowling instead. "Oh, it's you."

He winks. "Glad you haven't forgotten me."

She raises one eyebrow coyly. "How could I? Your charming manner and luscious compliments were quite memorable."

"Well, I try." He's grinning at her mischievously, like he knows something she doesn't. It annoys her and yet it makes her want to throw back her head and laugh. She perfects her scowl to keep from having to decide.

Then he _does_ laugh, and it's the most beautiful sound she's ever heard. "You want a drink?"

She nods, one quick little bob, and he grabs her hand and pulls her further into the shouting, pulsing mob. She lets him guide her blindly, because for some reason she can't see anything beyond the blue of his eyes.

"I didn't think you went for places like this," he shouts over the music.

"I don't," she yells back. Then: "My roommate," she offers by way of explanation. He nods in understanding and thrusts something red and fizzy into her hand. She raises her eyebrows suspiciously.

"Just drink it," he advises, downing his own quickly. "It feels better on the inside than it does sitting in your hand."

She consents, tossing the liquid into the back of her throat, where it burns quickly before settling into a comforting warmth. He's looking down at her in amusement.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replies innocently. Then his smile widens. "It's just so obvious you've never done this before."

She huffs. He's being unfair; he doesn't know her from Adam. She wishes she could be madder at him than she is. He's acting like a jerk, and she's lapping it up.

"How do you know? You've only ever talked to me once in your life," she snaps. His expression remains amused. She glares back at him.

"Whatever you say, Smartass. Have another."

She gulps the second drink, which oddly tastes even better than the first did. He winks again and tosses back his own drink. Suddenly, she is curious.

"Why are you talking to me?"

It is his turn to look annoyed. "I can't talk to you if I want to?"

She shakes her head, not wanting him to be upset. "No, I… you've seen me one time in your entire life. I mean, how did you even _remember _me?"

"You're quite memorable," he replies sardonically, throwing her words back at her. She finally smiles, a real one for the first time all evening.

He doesn't know why he feels so accomplished just from getting her to smile, but at this point he's so high that he doesn't exactly care. It just feels nice to be talking to someone who really doesn't give a damn who he is or what he does with his already-screwed-up life. And she's the first freshman he's ever talked to who doesn't have some weird, worship-like affection for him.

Those killer legs aren't half bad either.

She's still smiling, but it's twisted into more of a smirk. Her eyes sparkle and he has to stop himself from catching his breath.

"Let's get out of here," he says automatically, because when things get too complicated or too real it's what he _does_. She has her methods of survival, he has his.

They weave their way through the crowd, hand in hand, giggling like a couple of seven-year-old girls from the suburbs. In the back of his mind, he realizes how stupid this is, but then she smiles at him, all her teeth showing, and he couldn't give a damn.

It's hard and fast and leaves them both breathless. Moonlight makes her too pale and she smells like alcohol and glitter and day-old cigarette smoke, but he closes his eyes and pretends it doesn't matter.

She does the same, though for reasons entirely different.

x

Two weeks, seven hours and eleven minutes later is the exact moment when she really, truly regrets it.

There had been the initial awkwardness, of course. Waking up to sunlight and a pounding head and a stranger is disconcerting under the best of circumstances. Needless to say, she didn't stay long, and she didn't say a word other than _goodbye_.

The burning shame that she expected to feel, however, didn't come. She waited and tortured herself with _what if _and tried to convince herself that she _was _the type of person who should feel bad about fucking a total stranger. But for two weeks, seven hours and eleven minutes, she simply felt _nothing_.

Now, as she stares at the fateful little white stick, she feels everything.

This was not part of the plan.

Luckily, she is excellent at managing a crisis. She is calm, organized, in control of her life and this situation. She believes in handling solo whatever life throws at her, and this is no different. She is rational, she is prepared, she will_ not_ fall apart.

Yeah, right.

She sits in her bathroom, ignores her roommate, misses her final and cries.

The next day she gets rid of it. She doesn't look back. She reorganizes her list, buries her head in her work and pretends she can't feel the gaping chasm that now rests between her life and her soul. She ignores him, avoids him and absolutely _never _wears blue.

It doesn't get better, but it gets easier.

x

She hears about him, over the years, through college and med-school and job offers and, as some scornful people so kindly put it, clawing her way to the top. It's always in passing, (she doesn't know whether it's karma or just some unspoken sixth sense that cause people to never approach the subject of _him _directly, but they never do) a mention of an article or a particularly intriguing case that circulates the grapevine. One time, she googles him and then snaps the laptop shut before the results can load, because even she realizes how pathetic that is. She wonders if he ever thinks of her. She hates herself for wondering.

Then, one day, she sees him.

And it's déjà vu, because she's sitting in a little café on the corner, sipping coffee and studying a patient file when he bursts in, blinding her in all of his brilliant color. He orders a coffee, black, and sits down in a booth catty-corner to her. She thinks he's too big for the booth, for the café, for her insignificant little world. He doesn't belong here with all this black and white.

She studies her patient file strong enough to burn a hole in it, but she can still _feel _him watching her, tracing his eyes along her spine, her shoulder, the curve of her neck. Her nerves endings are screaming under his scrutiny, but still she ignores him. It's all part of the plan, all part of survival.

She thinks he's gotten more patient than he was back in college. Or at least more patient than he seemed to be. At any rate, he doesn't move, she doesn't either, and somewhere along the way it becomes a battle of wills.

He thinks she's gotten more patient than she was back in college, or at least more patient than she seemed to be. He knows she knows, can see her subtle shifts as his gaze falls upon her, trails the lines of her body, but she's stubborn. She is, apparently, not going to let him win.

Yeah, right.

She aches all over, her foot has fallen asleep and she has to pee, but she refuses to move until he does. It crosses her mind that this is ridiculous bordering on insanity, but she's too far in to back out now. She promises herself just a few minutes more, and he'll give up. He'll leave her alone, go back to his brilliant, technicolor world and just let her forget. But she was never a very good liar.

He's winning and he knows it. He can see her fading; can see the slump of her back, the impatient twitch of her fingers. Plus, she drank a whole latte. Surely she has to pee by now. He smirks, leans back, and shuts his eyes.

Almost there.

"Would you please just fuck off?" Her voice is thin, sharp, and cutting. She's trying to look menacing, unfortunately it's not working for her because she barely reaches his shoulder in height. He raises one eyebrow and stands.

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was bothering you. Do you usually prefer drinking your lattes in deserted cafes?"

"That's not what I mean and you know it. Why are you here? Why can't you just leave me alone?" He thinks she's literally shooting off sparks.

"I just dropped in to say hi, but I didn't want to disturb you. You were obviously so busy," he gestures to the patient file, sneering at her openly now.

She is so completely pissed off it's not even _funny_. She has never met a more infuriating person. She breathes in and out deeply through her nose, counts to ten, twenty, thirty, trying to calm her raging emotions. None of it works. "I'm not interested in talking to _you_. For your information I am a _very _busy doctor and I must get back to my hospital."

She turns on her heel and marches away, but pauses as he calls out to her.

"I want you to give me a job."

She squeezes her eyes shut, laughs, and turns back to glare daggers at him. "Why in the world would _I _give _you _a job?"

"You need me," he replies simply; face, for once, wiped clean of emotion.

She laughs and stalks away without another word, because only in his _dreams _will he be getting a job from _her_.

One week later, against everyone else's opinion, she hires him as head of the only diagnostics department in the country. They stand in her office, her desk a buffer between them. She shakes his hand and smiles, welcomes him to the hospital, but inside she is falling again, reaching out, clutching at handholds that aren't there.

"Just for the record," she says as he is leaving, "I don't _need_ you."

"Whatever you say, Dr. Cuddy," he replies.

x

So it goes, and whether it is a game or a dance or a war or just ignoring the elephant in the room, her relationship with House exists, thrives even, from day to day. He pushes and she shoves back. It's normal and easy, because, though neither of them would admit it, anything harder or heavier would be too much. In all their screwed up methods of survival, this is one they share.

There's Stacy and the infarction and then the year through hell, when he never speaks only screams and she can _see _the distrust and betrayal radiating off of his skin as a haze that surrounds him. She promises him that she's not leaving, yells back, fights back and cries in the privacy of her office.

Slowly, slowly, they grow around it. It's always there, and when he smiles with less smirk and more warmth or she forgives him too quickly for one of his thousand mistakes they see it, like a shadow in the room. But they were built to survive. So she reprimands and cajoles and he needles and pokes and one day they are friends again. Maybe they are stronger for what happened, but maybe not. She chooses not to think about it.

There are more plans, and lists, some of which succeed better than she ever could have imagined, some that she burns in the middle of the night.

Of all the plans, however, the primary one is the baby.

Ironic, she thinks, that something she deliberately chose to get rid of in college is now the one thing she wants the most. Her life becomes a roller coaster ride of emotions, euphoria replacing despair replacing hope replacing anger replacing _maybe, maybe, maybe it'll work this time_. She doesn't tell anyone, because that's one of the rules: there is home and there is work and never the two shall meet.

She doesn't even know why it's so important, really. There was a plan, back in high school, and she was going to become a doctor and have a career and then get married, have babies, live a perfectly typical, uninteresting suburban life. The first half of the plan was perfectly, seamlessly executed. But though there were dates and kisses and hopes of finding the _one_, it never happened. She remained alone, sitting in her apartment at night watching re-runs of the Gilmore Girls and eating T.V. dinners. And it didn't bother her. Not really. At the very least, she could survive. (Survival is what matters, after all…) But she couldn't shake the wanting – _needing _– of another pair of eyes staring up at her trustingly; a little hand warm and heavy in hers.

So she continues this game with nature and her own body, sits in her bathroom and fights back the urge to scream.

He knows, somehow. She fights it, ignores it, and finally accepts it, because fighting Gregory House is like yelling at a wall. She tries to read the emotions behind his eyes, because for some reason it's important to her to know how he feels about this, but as usual he's quicker than she is. He makes biting remarks and sneers and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at her breasts, so she rolls her eyes and plays along with his game that this will change nothing. Or at least that it doesn't have to.

She's pregnant for three whole, glorious days.

He notices seven days too late. She tries not to let him see how painful his remarks are, how every time he says something about _her _and _pregnant _she's back in her bathroom, bleeding onto the cold, hard tiles.

She tries again, tries again, screams and bleeds and tries again. He says her breasts looks bigger and maybe the spawn idea isn't such a bad one after all. She rolls her eyes and orders him to the clinic but inside she is drowning, drowning, drowning.

Okay: third time's a charm.

But maybe it isn't, because she still isn't pregnant and her house is still empty and she still watches reruns of Gilmore Girls. House quits bugging her, and that's how she knows it's _really _over. So she puts the extra pregnancy tests in a back corner of her closet, under some old medical textbooks. She quits walking by the Baby Gap at the mall. She stocks up on T.V. dinners.

She burns this plan in the middle of the night.

x

Life goes on as normal, and that really pisses her off. Everything is still black and white. His color still bleeds into her universe like hot lava. Everyone still plays by the rules; he is still the only exception. People still get sick, still die; donors still complain and patients still sue (House).

She has an indescribable longing to just stay at home, curl up beneath the covers and ignore the world. The only reason she doesn't is because she knows he would come looking, asking questions. She doesn't want him to know, doesn't want anyone to know.

But especially him.

Two months after her last attempt, she starts to feel things again. She buys Froot Loops. Goes out a few times. Screws with House just because she _can_.

And she starts thinking about other options.

Adoption had never been part of the picture, but now, though she would never admit it, she is becoming desperate. She's coming apart at the seams, but she convinces herself that everything will be all right if only she can have a baby.

There is more waiting, more crying, but at least there is no more bleeding on the bathroom floor.

There is Joy and then… there isn't.

She sits in the corner of her living room, knees pulled up to her chest, and thinks that maybe this isn't any better than bleeding on the bathroom floor. The feeling of having her heart ripped out of her chest is the same.

She's actually not surprised when he shows up at her door. He looks appropriately sorrowful, but she doesn't want to do this now.

"You would have made a great mother."

She laughs bitterly, because if that's his version of an apology then he _seriously _needs to work on his people skills. She insults him – because if she doesn't yell she knows she'll cry – and he takes it humbly, staring down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. She often thinks that, between them, they could power a small city on the electricity they generate. It's moments like these – when the air between them is so thick she can't breathe – that she remembers why she keeps returning to him.

She isn't sure who moves first. But suddenly he's kissing her and she's jelly in his hands. This is nowhere near that night so long ago (was that even the same person, or is that girl a stranger whose memories she has retained?). He moves almost gently now, but there is desperation in the way she clings to him. She wants to back down, but her brain in its exhaustion misinterprets the signal, and she opens her mouth under his instead.

He breaks away suddenly, and she almost cries at the cold his sudden absence brings. He's staring at her, an odd look on his face, but he's gone before she has time to interpret what it means. She promises herself it doesn't matter.

(Except it really kind of does.)

Lying in bed that night (okay, so it's actually almost dawn) she suddenly knows: the look on his face, the light in his eyes… was love.

She cries.

_He loves her_.

x

He loves her.

He doesn't how, or when, or _why_, but there it is. He almost wishes he didn't, because then maybe he wouldn't care so much, then maybe it wouldn't _hurt _so much.

And it's not like this is some _fucking _fairytale, because if it were, then she would be with him, and he wouldn't feel guilty for holding her while she cries, and her body would be round with _his _child, and he wouldn't be sitting in his dark apartment, alone save for a bottle of bourbon.

She's begun to play this game so very well that he's actually _losing_, which seems quite unfair considering that it's _his _game. He wants to walk away, erase her from his memory as easily as he has the thousands of other strangers he bedded in med school, but then she smiles, and he's no closer to escaping than he ever was.

They dance around anything and everything to do with each other and pretend they can't see what everyone else does: the proverbial elephant in the room. There are more cases, more arguing, more sexual innuendo (though _that's _entirely House). There's Rachel (Finally, finally, _my god_, there is Rachel) and he thinks that perhaps to her he is nothing more than furniture in the room, because she got what she wanted, didn't she? She's happy.

And she is, but she's not, because _yes_ this is what she wanted, but he's still blinding her in all of his brilliant color, and he's getting harder to ignore. She wants to tell him (everything: I'm sorry, I was scared, you're _everything_, I love you) but doesn't know how.

Then, like a changing of the tides, everything shifts and-

And he's hallucinating and he's frightened (but he's _House_, he can't be frightened) and she wants to be brave for him, but she can barely stop her own hands from shaking. And then he is gone.

And she thinks that maybe she really won't survive this time.

x

Then Lucas steps into the picture, like some vaguely interesting side show, and she wants to pretend that this is _it_, that she's finally found her happy ending, but she can't ignore the knots in her stomach.

He wants to pretend too, but for him it is different. He wants to pretend it doesn't matter that she's happy without him, but he's flying blind. He's grappling at the air, searching for handholds and wanting her to save him, but of course – _of course _– he would _never _ask.

And, though neither of them will admit it, they're growing tired (_so damn tired_) of this game.

It all ends in the middle of the night. They're covered in blood and dirt, half-asleep, exhausted to the point of tears. And it's pretty damn near perfect.

And, like always, like in everything, she begins it. She is the initiator, the go-getter, always has been, always will be. But this time –

This time, she has no idea what she's doing and she hates it.

Lisa Cuddy is _always _in control. No matter what the situation, whether it be a hospital crisis or her child's tantrums or a donor's complaints, Cuddy always has the answers.

But with House, she always comes up blank.

It's freezing outside, and it crosses her mind again that she's an idiot to being doing this _now_. She had gone to his apartment on impulse, which was something a rational, non-sleep-deprived Cuddy would _never _do. She rings his bell again in frustration. The rain that had threatened to pour all night has finally come, though reluctantly. The small, feather-light drops brush against her skin reassuringly.

Five minutes later and still no answer. _Is he even home? _ She finally breaks down and uses the key he had given her last year. _In case of emergencies_, he had said. Translation: _In case I screw this up and end up dead from Vicodin overdose._

He looks as exhausted as she feels. It's the first thing that crosses her mind when she finds him, slumped against the wall of his bathroom. Shattered, reflective glass surrounds him, but she doesn't even want to go _there_.

She has imagined this moment, a million times over, what she would say and do. They will never be a storybook; she knows there are no fairytale endings in whatever future they have. In the reality of _now_, she sums up the roller coaster that has been her emotions for the past year in a few short words:

"I just need to know if you and I can work."

"You think I can fix myself? Cause I'm the most screwed up person in the world." He suddenly looks smaller, sitting there on the bathroom floor, shattered glass surrounding him like a deadly pool of water. She doesn't want to do this now; she's too damn tired and what they have is too much to think about now. Questions and answers will come, but in this moment she craves only to be with him, because she's been without him for too long.

"I know. I love you."

He stands and slips his hand into hers, and she is home.

x

It lasts less than a year, but it's better than she could ever have imagined.

The ending is ugly and heartbreaking and everything she ever expected and never wanted it to be. She walks around and wonders why no one comments about the gaping hole in her chest, because it's _there_. She knows. She can't breathe because of it.

Nonetheless, in the end she is a survivor. And she's done this before. She can do it again. (It's not much harder this time. Not really.) She stops wearing blue. She doesn't laugh as much, but she can smile when she has to. Rachel asks the inevitable questions. She answers them and then goes to her bathroom and comes out a half hour later.

And –

And when she sees him, talks to him, orders him around (_that's _the only part that feels normal anymore) she learns to numb out the pain, like a shot of morphine before a risky surgery.

It's a balancing act. It's a game again, but in a sense the playing field has evened out. They face each other, equals, ready to start over and begin again. Battered, bruised and broken, but _here_.

Game on.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2: I would love to hear what you all think - not only of this story - but of the finale and LE's departure. Love it? Hate it? Really couldn't give a damn? **

**You know what to do.**


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